


nuances

by bukkunkun



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Adjective Heavy, Canon Compliant, Character Analysis, Fluff without Plot, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Headcanon, I'm Sorry, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Some Plot, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 07:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10589274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: Otabek has a stiff accent that chases away potential friends.Except for one, I suppose. Among several others.a fic (very loosely) based onthis thread on twitter.





	

**Author's Note:**

> EATS MY ENTIRE FIST 
> 
> a gift to my friends @cakepril and @bunnyBANCHOU on twitter. sorry in advanced for the lack of plot lmfao it's literally just a fancy hc exhibition 
> 
> **THANK BASED KUBO FOR THE EX SKATE WELCOME TO THE MADNESS BTW I LOVE IT SO MUCH ALREADY**
> 
>  **EDIT:** I'm well aware of any blatant errors, don't worry, I've already crucified myself so you don't have to waste energy doing the same.

“ _Сәлеметсіз бе_.” His mother said, offering a golden ring to the cashier in that accent he knew and loved. It was his tenth birthday, and she had made him a promise he would never forget.

She and the young man chatted in voices Otabek swore he would never forget, warm and comforting and familiar, and he knew nothing was softer than his mother’s words.

He would use the same voice, the same tone to speak.

*

“ _всем привет._ ” Plisetsky said, a year later, and he looked back at the blond boy, a good head shorter than him, yet with eyes that seemed to see right through him. He peered at Otabek from behind the safety of his grandfather, and Otabek didn't know how to respond. The old man had brought the two of them together, and Plisetsky seemed unwilling to further socialise.

Otabek’s Russian was rusty, still clumsy like a toddler’s speech, but he replied likewise, ill-fitted with the stiffness of his Kazakh roots, and the blond boy flinched and hid away from him further.

His grandfather apologised, but that was the end of their short-lived conversation.

He hoped he could talk to Plisetsky again, and maybe then he wouldn't scare the boy away.

*

“Heya.” De La Iglesia was smiling at him, sunkissed skin fitting more of a Malibu boy with a surfboard than cooped up in a skating rink with a few more boys. Otabek had only begun to learn English, the third of four languages he was trying to master—aside from his native Kazakh, his subpar Russian and bits of Swiss French.

Otabek uneasily thumbed his hair, now a little longer than he wore it, more because he prioritised skating more than a haircut than anything. “Hair?” He ventured, English an even worse fit than Russian had been, but despite the severe tone he accidentally took, De La Iglesia simply chuckled and shook his head.

“I was saying hi.” He said. “You're new.”

“Yes.” Otabek said stiffly, and it sounded like the end of a conversation. The American boy nodded, humming thoughtfully, and he patted Otabek’s shoulder.

“Nice meeting you,” he said, interpreting Otabek’s tone the way it sounded, and with a friendly smile, De La Iglesia skated away.

Try and try again, Otabek thought to himself, looking down at his clenched fists. Softer, softer.

*

“ _Salut!_ ” His name was Leroy, and Otabek thought he was a bit of an oddball.

There was a boy Coach Celestino frequently scolded, and his name was Jean-Jacques Leroy. While some of the students found him a little insufferable, Otabek thought he wasn't too bad.

They shared haircuts, for starters, and Leroy was a sweet enough boy, when you spent enough time with him. Otabek could sympathise—he had a hard time making friends, too. He could never get rid of that stiffness people told him he had as he spoke.

“Hello.” He replied, and he did his best to keep it down. Softer, softer. Leroy’s French was different from the one the Swiss use. The vowels were shaped differently, and consonants rolled off the tongue more loosely than what Otabek was used to.

“Is this seat taken?” Leroy asked him, gesturing at the space on the bench next to him, and Otabek nodded, shuffling a little further down the bench to give the teen more room to sit down. “Thanks.” Leroy beamed at him and sat down, but he did little else.

Otabek raised an eyebrow at him. He wasn't quite the best person to continue conversations, and the few friends he had made while schooling, while mischievous, could never quite teach him how to talk to people.

“O-oh, yeah, um,” Leroy scratched his cheek. “Listen, um…”

“Coach Celestino gave you an earful again today.” Otabek finally managed to say, and the Canadian blinked at him. Otabek flushed in embarrassment, but Leroy simply laughed, not the same kind of laugh Otabek grew used to hearing.

He sounded… tired. Sadder, even.

“Yeah, uh. Old man can't get what I'm trying to do.” He replied, before making an odd sort of gesture with his hands. “It's JJ Style! Easy as that!” He grinned, and Otabek realised his fingers made double J’s.

How… unique, he thought.

“Oh.” Was all he managed. Leroy laughed anyway, and he patted Otabek’s shoulder.

“Well, I wanted to talk to you.” He said, “My mama and papa are hosting a charity banquet and they'd really like it if more skaters came. Just to have a good time, you know?”

Otabek blinked at him, and pointed at himself.

“Yeah, you.” Leroy grinned.

Otabek finally let a small smile cross his face. “Alright.”

“Awesome.” Leroy nodded. “I'll send you an email all about it,” he said, taking his phone out of his pocket. “Oh, and we should probably add each other on Facebook to make it easier.”

Otabek rarely used his social media accounts, but on Celestino’s advice, he had some made. He nodded, and let Leroy handle the rest.

“You're not as scary as people think you are.” The teen hummed, and Otabek blinked at him owlishly. Leroy simply gave him a smile and waved him goodbye. “See you soon. Let's keep in touch!”

Little did Otabek know Leroy was leaving that week, but he wouldn't miss him too terribly.

Not with all the messages he was getting on Facebook Messenger.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

*

“ _你好_!” Ji was a timid boy, and he always seemed to tail De La Iglesia around when they were together.

It was nice to see him again, at the Junior Worlds, and he gave the two of them polite nods in greeting. Otabek had found it easier to retain people and conversations with little to no vocal input, so he wouldn't scare people off. Ji, he realised, would have bolted immediately if he spoke the way he was used to.

“Always a guy with little to say,” De La Iglesia said fondly, but he shook hands with Otabek all the same. “This is my former rink mate, Otabek Altin.” He told Ji. “Otabek, this is my friend, Guang Hong Ji.”

“Hello.” Otabek said, and Ji seemed to jump. Again, with the scaring of people, he thought bitterly.

“I-I, uh,” Ji stammered, “Yes, um. Hello.” His English was as detached as Otabek’s, he realised, rounder and slipperier with a tongue so used to Chinese, and he knew all it took was patience for Ji to learn it. “It's nice to meet you.”

They shook hands stiffly, and Ji quickly pulled away. De La Iglesia patted his shoulder.

“See you again soon, Otabek?” He asked, and Otabek nodded. “Oh, and congrats on placing fifth! You've really improved from before.”

Otabek gave him a small smile, and Ji visibly relaxed. “Congratulations on your silver.” He said, and De La Iglesia laughed sheepishly.

“Heh, thanks.” He said, before tugging gently on Ji’s wrist. “C’mon, Guang Hong, there's more people I want you to meet.”

“R-right.” Ji nodded. “See you later, Otabek.”

De La Iglesia gave him a grin and a wave, and Otabek waved them goodbye.

Stiff and scary, as always.

*

“ _Bonjour_.” Giacometti’s French was more familiar than Leroy’s had been, but then again, the curling purr around old, familiar words that only came to Otabek in clunky, awkward chops of syllables were as starkly different from what he was used to, just like when Otabek first met Leroy.

The seniors’ division for Worlds was certainly more… interesting than the juniors’, and this time, Otabek had managed to claw his way up to the podium to get third place. Standing together with the living legend Nikiforov and his only other rival Giacometti, Otabek felt odd and out of place as a first timer to the podium.

Nikiforov was busy with interviews and flashing lights, and Giacometti was a social butterfly at heart.

“ _Bonjour_.” Otabek replied stiffly, unsure and wavering in his French, and Giacometti laughed, but not unkindly.

“You speak through the nose, dear.” He said, switching to the lingua franca of the rest of the world. “But well done tonight, mister bronze medalist. You beat JJ, too.”

Leroy had just barely missed the podium, landing fourth, but the Canadian had been _thrilled_ to see Otabek on the podium that time.

“Thank you.” He replied, and Giacometti giggled this time, hand daintily over his mouth.

“Ah, and I see where the dark, brooding knight image comes from.” He said, poking the younger man’s cheek. “Let's see a smile from you.”

Otabek lifted the corners of his lips, and Giacometti’s answering laughter was fond.

“You remind me of someone.” He said, after a fit of giggles. “Maybe minus the lack of the need to talk, but you remind me of him.”

“Of whom?” Otabek asked, but the blond man shook his head, and turned to the approaching journalists.

“A friend.” He simply said, and he and Otabek were swept into another interview together.

Friends, Otabek thought later on, holding a glass of juice as he watched Giacometti and Nikiforov chat amicably. Just beyond them, he saw Plisetsky sulking in his own corner of the banquet hall.

Friends, he thought again. Would the soft touch of words really win him over the next time they spoke?

*

“ _Come va?_ ” Italian was a beautiful language, though coming from the male Crispino’s mouth made it sound rougher than it was intended to be. Otabek watched him walk alongside his sister Sara through the hallway, clutching a gift a fan gave him after his performance. “ _Stai venendo qui?_ ” He lit up, and fired off into rapid Italian with his sister.

They seem happy, Otabek thought. He should be, too, being the first to qualify for the Grand Prix Final, but all he could feel was… anxiety.

This was his chance, he thought. It was time for him to meet Plisetsky again, and this time, he was determined to get it right.

The Crispino girl—Sara, he heard her brother coo at her—turned to look at him, and she lit up.

“Otabek Altin!” She cheered, and he nearly jumped. That wasn't the usual reaction Otabek had come to expect of people approaching him, and the surprise was enough to hold him still long enough for Sara to approach him. “Hi,” she giggled. “Congrats on the gold.”

“Thank you.” Otabek replied stiffly. He wasn't completely aware of the women’s figure skating scene, but he knew well enough that Sara was still in the qualifying race for the Grand Prix Final. “Well done to you, too.”

“She got _silver_ , buddy,” Crispino snarled from behind her, and Sara shot Otabek an apologetic look. “Just because you got gold—”

Crispino’s English was impeccable, but his manners could use some work, Otabek thought.

“Ignore him,” Sara laughed nervously. “That's a cute bear you have there. What's his name?”

Otabek flushed slightly. “I haven't given him one, but the fans call him Otabear.”

“Otabear!” Sara gasped, stars in her eyes, and her brother harrumphed behind her. “That's super cute; do you wanna have dinner with us? Mickey’s treat, for being so mean to you.”

“H-hey!”

“I don't think he'll enjoy that very much.” Otabek said, and it came out more stiffly than he intended, both out of exasperation at Crispino, and in embarrassment for Sara. “I'll eat alone, thank you.”

Sara deflated, but he gave her a small wave and quickly excused himself. As he walked away, he heard the twins bickering.

“I wanted a date!” Sara was complaining, and Crispino would have none of it.

A date, Otabek thought with surprise. But they barely knew each other.

Then again, so did he and Plisetsky, he realised. When the time came, would he say yes to time alone with him, or would he end up just like Sara Crispino?

He hoped it wouldn't come to that, but it was hard to keep the faith.

*

“ _Je to_ Otabek Altin!” A cheerful voice suited the equally cheerful Nikola, and while he had just been invited out to dinner by Leroy in a similarly cheerful tone, Otabek wasn't in the mood to meet new people. Not when he was about to chase after his biggest goal yet.

He turned to see the sandy blond-haired young man, grinning widely as he left the Crispino siblings behind him, and Otabek gave him a polite nod.

“Hey, hey!” Nikola grinned. “You’re Otabek Altin!”

“I am.” He replied flatly, but the man simply beamed.

“You’re awesome, dude. Welcome to Barcelona!”

They had all arrived at the same time at the rink. Otabek arrived early, having arrived from Almaty just that morning. Nikola and the Crispino siblings had been there to check the venue out, and while Otabek was fine with seeing Nikola and Sara again, Crispino was a sight he wasn’t too welcome with seeing again. Still, he gave Nikola a nod, and the blond gave him a thumbs-up. “So my friends and I are going out for lunch. You game?”

Otabek glanced Crispino’s way, and Sara waved at him enthusiastically.

“I’ll pass.” He said, and Nikola looked a little crestfallen, but the blond nodded.

“Yeah, alright.” He nodded, “It’s Mickey, isn’t it?” He laughed slightly, “Did you flirt with Sara or something?”

She had flirted with _him_ first, he thought. “No.” Otabek replied, “Sorry, but I don’t think he likes me very much.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Nikola scratched the back of his neck. “So, uh. You got friends to hang out with here?” He asked. “I kinda feel bad leaving you alone like this.”

“I’ll be fine.” He replied, and finally let a small smile cross his face. “I’ll make my own.”

Nikola blinked at him in surprise for a moment, before a warm smile crossed his face.

“Right,” He nodded. “Good luck, buddy.”

He patted Otabek’s shoulder heavily, and headed back to meet with his own set of friends. Otabek watched them all walk away. His smile widened slightly some more, and turned away from the skating rink to head back to the hotel.

Halfway through the doorway, he stopped, and turned to see a beautiful Harley Davidson parked alongside the driveway. A grin crossed his face, and he wondered if Plisetsky liked motorbikes as much as he did.

He entered the hotel and made a beeline for the reception desk.

“Excuse me, where can I rent a motorbike?”

*

“ _สวัสดี!_ ” Chulanont had a loud voice if he wanted it, he thought. It was a pleasant, light ditty of a voice that sounded warm like the country he came from. The summer was soft and kind in the way his mother tongue rolled along his voice, and the exoticness of it made Otabek stop in the middle of walking to see the young Thai taking a live video on his phone.

As he always did, he realised. Where Otabek hated SNS, Chulanont _loved_ it.

The young man kept talking, probably updating his followers on what was happening, and when he had turned around by chance, he saw Otabek in the back of his video. “Oh! Otabek Altin! Over here!”

He cheerfully bounded over to Otabek, who felt a flush crossing his cheeks in embarrassment as Chulanont went on a spiel in Thai about who-knew-what. He turned to beam at the taller young man, and nudged him slightly. “Say hi to everyone on the Internet!” He said cheerfully, and Otabek cleared his throat, awkward and unused to the attention.

“H-hello.” Stiff as always, but Chulanont didn’t seem the least bit bothered. The Thai man looked at him expectantly, and he went on to say awkwardly, “I’m Otabek Altin.”

“Thanks a bunch.” Chulanont gave him a thumbs-up and a hearty pat on his shoulder. He turned back to the camera and spoke again in Thai, his voice taking a signing-off tone, and he gave one last wave back at the camera. “Otabek! Give us a wave!”

Otabek obliged with an awkward shuffle of his hand from right to left, and Chulanont gave the camera one last kiss and wink before turning off his stream. The moment he was off, he turned to look at Otabek, concern on his face. “Are you okay? You seem bothered.”

Otabek blinked, and he shook his head. “I’m fine.” He replied, English choppier than Chulanont’s polished Midwestern accent. It had an odd fusion with the same vowels Leroy made with his English, and Otabek realised this came from the years Chulanont spent studying and training in Detroit.

Chulanont hummed. “Hm, you sure?” he asked, clutching his phone closer to himself. “I-I’m not gonna lie, you really are as they say.”

“What do they say?”

“Things,” Chulanont made a vague gesture with his hands, and he jumped when he realised what his words sounded like. “U-uh! Not like they’re bad, or anything just—um.” He rubbed his arm. “Shy.”

Shy.

Otabek’s eyebrow raised in intrigue. “That’s the first time I’ve heard that.”

“Well, technically, I heard it from Yuuri, who heard it from Victor.” Chulanont said, “They said you seemed… shy, so I wanted to talk to you.”

Otabek let out a small huff of breath. “It’s true I don’t have many friends.” He said, “But I’ve made do.”

Chulanont seemed to be relieved at that. “Well, alright then.” He nodded, and he lowered his phone. “You remind me of someone, you know.” He chuckled softly, and Otabek cocked his head.

“Who?”

“A friend.”

*

He’d done it, he thought, driving through Barcelona’s streets with a warm body behind him and a pair of thin arms around his waist.

It really _wasn’t_ as hard, just as they said.

*

“ _Ни за что!_ ” Plisetsky was laughing into the straw of his drink, and it was so… _easy_. The seamless transition from that first awkward meeting, to the second, _more_ awkward meeting, and now… this.

Seated across next to each other, laughing together at a booth as Otabek shared another joke mix he made, cat-shaped earphone splitter forgotten to the side in favour of simply sharing a pair of earbuds Otabek had with him. It was a warm, windy summer in St. Petersburg, and Plisetsky’s laughter was soft as the wind that blew through his blond hair. It had grown over the months, and Otabek had since grown used to Plisetsky’s presence in the time they spent together. The midnights shared over Skype calls, the midday texts and instant messages, and it had completely transformed him as much as Plisetsky had also changed.

Social media, he thought to himself, as Plisetsky leaned against him heavily, breathless with giggles as Otabek’s remix of _We Are Number One_ with cat meows stole the breath from him.

He was enjoying himself, at least.

“You bet I am,” Plisetsky wheezed, his English with the same rough polish as Otabek’s, and that made the older teen smile fondly. The two had made an agreement to practice English together, though sometimes Russian slipped into their conversations, easy as they pleased.

“I didn’t realise I said that out loud.” Otabek replied, and Plisetsky snorted.

“You don’t realise a lot of things,” he said, elbowing his friend. “That was great, Beka. Haven’t laughed that hard in… a few hours.” He grinned widely, and it was Otabek’s turn to laugh and smile.

“Oh, Yurio!”

Nikiforov’s voice wasn’t something Otabek expected to hear, and the older teen jumped to see him and his fiancé Katsuki walking together, hand in hand as usual. The Japanese man was carrying a paper bag of groceries with his free arm, and around Nikiforov’s free wrist was their dog’s leash. Plisetsky panicked, stumbling around their booth to hurry and sit across Otabek, their earphones falling down onto the table uselessly as the two older men approached them.

“On a date again with Otabek?” Nikiforov asked pleasantly, and Plisetsky’s cheeks turned an impressive red. “Oh, Yurio!” He laughed brightly, earning him a reprimanding elbow right in his ribs from Katsuki.

“Yurio, sorry about him,” Yuuri said, before looking at Otabek. “It’s nice to see you, Otabek-kun.”

“Likewise.” Otabek nodded, and Yuuri gave him a kind smile, as well. “And as far as I know, this isn’t a date.”

He didn’t fail to catch Plisetsky flinch, but Nikiforov’s answering whine stole his attention.

“Ahh, you really do talk so stiffly,” he sighed dramatically, clinging onto Yuuri, “I’m glad you at least tone _that_ down around our Yurio.”

“You’re not my parents, damn it!” Plisetsky protested, and Otabek raised an eyebrow at him as they met gazes. His blush deepened, and he made a show of ushering the two men away. “Go away, damn it, you’re messing up the mood.”

“Yurio’s growing up so fast!” Nikiforov cheered, and Katsuki had mercifully had enough. He tugged on his fiancé’s arm, grinning apologetically at the two.

“Just enjoy your afternoon, you two.” He said, “I’ll see us out.”

Katsuki dragged Nikiforov away, leaving the two of them alone again, and Plisetsky sighed deeply, sounding exhausted with the way the breath rushed out of his chest.

“Beka, you had a speech problem?”

“You were calling these dates?”

The two of them stopped, and Plisetsky’s blush deepened, just as Otabek felt his own on fire.

“You first.” Otabek said, and the blond took a deep breath.

“You had a speech problem?” He asked, and Otabek nodded gingerly.

“The way I spoke bothered people. Scared them away—but around you, I… I do my utmost to keep myself in check.” He confessed. “You’re my first real friend, so I… I, uh.”

Plisetsky rubbed his arm. “Oh.”

“You called these dates?” Otabek continued, and Plisetsky refused to meet his eye. Fondness welled in his chest as he continued, “You know, we’ve only been hanging out for a few times.”

“I _know_ , Beka, just forget it—”

“But I don’t mind, really. Dating. Sure.”

Plisetsky jolted, and he blinked at him owlishly, as Otabek blushed deeper. “That’s how people get to know each other more, right?”

The blond hesitated for a moment, before grinning in relief. “Yeah, of course. I’ll tell you something, Beka.”

Otabek cocked his head at him, and the younger teen leaned forward to kiss him, just the brush of lips against each other, before snatching away, laughing softly. Otabek gaped at him, and his laughs grew a little louder.

“You’re my first kiss.”

Otabek gaped, a fish out of water as his mouth opened and closed, before he let out an incredulous laugh.

“Oh, Yuri,” he sighed, “You’re my first kiss too.”

*

“ _ようこそ_!” The Katsukis were all very friendly people, warm and accommodating despite the cold winter currently tearing apart Japan. The NHK cup was a few weeks away, but a vacation was warranted, and Otabek had been intending to see more than just Tokyo City.

Yuuri Katsuki’s Japanese was, hands-down, still the best language the man could speak, and it flowed like water over stones, calming and crisp, and while Otabek couldn’t understand it, he found himself nodding, all the same.

“Are you here to see Yuri?” Katsuki asked, smiling kindly, and Otabek nodded. “Like you said, I haven’t told him you’re here yet. His grandpa knows, though.”

“And Victor?” He asked. The older skater laughed softly.

“Dead drunk.” He said, “Won’t know a thing.”

Otabek smiled fondly at that, and nodded. “Thank you very much.”

“It’s no problem! Yuri’s boyfriend is _our_ friend.” Katsuki patted his shoulder. “Now, come on. This way!”

Katsuki was one of the few people who weren’t intimidated or surprised when they heard him speak for the first time, and for that, Otabek was grateful. He also knew Yuri trusted him more than Nikiforov, these days, and it showed. At least Katsuki knew how to keep his mouth shut.

Katsuki led him to a sliding paper door with a number—Yuri’s room—and gave him a knowing smile. Otabek gave him a quiet nod, and knocked on the door. The Japanese man snickered softly, but let him be, walking away to tend to the rest of the hot springs, as the door slid violently open.

“Beka.” Yuri gasped, and there was a hairclip keeping his long bangs out of his eyes.

“Yura.” Otabek smiled back, and pulled the blond into a warm hug.

**Author's Note:**

> by the way, i take commissions! details [here](https://twitter.com/trickscd/status/850004702959775744) on my twitter account. 
> 
> here come translation woes. hope i got these right;;
> 
> *Сәлеметсіз бе (Kazakh) - hello there  
> *всем привет (Russian) - hello  
> *Salut (French) - hi  
> *你好 (Mandarin Chinese) - hello  
> *You All Know Exactly What Christophe Giacometti Said  
> *Come va? (Italian) - what's up?  
> *Stai venendo qui (Italian) - you're coming?  
> *Je to Otabek Altin! (Czech) - it's Otabek Altin!  
> *สวัสดี (Thai) - hi  
> *Ни за что (Russian) - no way!  
> *ようこそ (Japanese) - welcome


End file.
